


Five Times the Future was in Flux

by alex_caligari



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: 5 Times, Angst, Gen, Originally Posted on LiveJournal
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 06:10:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,059
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17616989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alex_caligari/pseuds/alex_caligari
Summary: The Doctor smells space and tastes time. There have been some moments when the future was uncertain, and some when it is very certain indeed.





	Five Times the Future was in Flux

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted in 2009.

I.

Death by reanimated corpses he could handle. Death by corpses in a Cardiff dungeon, on the other hand…

“Go down fighting, yeah?”

He looked down at her. “Yeah.”

“Together?”

He gripped her hand. “I’m so glad I met you.” He smiled, but it was mainly to cover the nausea that bit at his stomach. He had told her before a little of what he sensed; the turn of the earth, the pull of the stars. But he didn’t tell her everything. He could feel space and see time, although those were inexact terms. He could easily say that he smelled space and that time pounded through his head like a bass drum. It didn’t matter _how_ he perceived it, only _what_ he perceived.

She would go down fighting. The strength of dead hands would tear the iron bars apart like canvas. He would do his best to protect her, but their numbers would overwhelm him. He could feel her hand being ripped away. He was stronger and larger, and no stranger to a physical fight. But she only had schoolyard scraps to draw from, and the dead don’t respond to pain. For a moment, they would be separated, but a strangled cry would make him find her again.

A bearded man had his hands around her throat. Still she would fight. Her hands clawed his face even as her windpipe was crushed. Her struggles would weaken, and her last act would be to turn slightly, so she could see him out of the corner of her eye, and mouth, “Doctor,” with blue lips.

She died with her eyes still open. And he knew that she didn’t blame him at all.

He would feel pain; inside, outside, in his side, in his head, in his bones. He could feel the fire crawling beneath his skin, waiting to erupt. He wouldn’t say her name, but would simply roar defiance when he was driven to the ground.

All this he could see. It was only a possibility, but the vividness meant it was almost real. Maybe the small details would change. Maybe she wouldn’t die by strangulation, but she would still die. They both would, and then they join the legion of corpses to destroy the world.

He gripped her hand a little tighter.

II.

Rose and Adam had wandered off into the crowd of Satellite 5, or rather, Rose had dragged him off. Where she found these people, he didn’t know. Mickey may be an idiot, but at least he was an honest idiot. Adam was just…well, let’s face it, he was a plonker. A genius, sure, for a human, but where had it got him? Working underground as a whipping boy for a megalomaniac. He was naïve and tricky and thick and…

He sighed. It didn’t matter what he thought; Rose would naturally defend the underdog. A good attribute, if sometimes misplaced. He knew he shouldn’t worry. She would return in the end. What could a human, trapped in one place, even try to tempt her with? Rose would come back to the Doctor, and he would tut and tease, but they would continue on together. Still, she felt comfortable with Adam. He would react and respond to her like another human would, and though she never said it, the Doctor knew that response was something she missed. If Adam stayed, they would grow closer. Maybe no more than friends, but suddenly he would be the outsider, the third wheel, the—he cringed— _chauffeur._

Nonsense. Ridiculous. Of course he felt protective. It was a natural reaction. It was protectiveness, not jealousy, or even concern. But the possibility was there. He could almost see it. It was vague, so it was hardly a certainty. Barely a likelihood. He squinted, in a sense, to try to see the timelines clearer. He wasn’t even sure what he was looking for. Adam and Rose arm in arm, laughing at some private joke, like he used to with her? No, nothing so definite. It was an Impressionist painting that only gave a fleeting glance at its subject before moving on. A splash of exasperation here, a stroke of patience there. She would have to introduce Adam slowly to the stars, child-like, because anything else would overwhelm him. He may be clever, but he couldn’t match her accomplishments. Really, would he have the confidence needed to talk back to a sheet of skin, and later ask for its redemption?

That was an odd word choice: redemption. Rose could ask the Doctor to spare the evillest creature in creation. Adam had left her, and _she_ felt sorry for _him._ And she would continue to redeem. It was a trait she repeated over and over. Patterns held power, he knew. He wondered how long this pattern would hold, and what it would result in.

He suddenly felt uncomfortable and put it down to restlessness. She would come back to him. Of course she would.

III.

Oh boy. Ooooh boy. You’d think he’d learn. He wished he would learn. It couldn’t be helped, really, not this time. He was as high-strung and unpredictable as a junkie. Maybe that’s what he was, a junkie for pain and death and exhilaration. He was scaring Rose, he saw, with this new face. She had seen some fantastic things and knew when to be cautious. Like when someone she thought she knew suddenly changed. Died. Was reborn.

He had tried to explain, but then his mind caught up with his body, and he was sent wheeling over the edge. He had heard people talk about fever dreams, but never really understood the notion. Now, it would make Salvador Dali’s head spin if he could see what the Doctor saw. Fever dreams took on a whole new meaning when combined with temporal-spatial sensitivity.

Rose. He could see her, with her pink sweater and terrified expression, but he could also see her as a six-year-old child. And a sixty-year-old woman. And every age in-between. He could see her as she was mere minutes ago, full of light and time and power. He could see her as a weak and feeble being, moments from death. She shifted and flowed from one stage to another, back and forth. How odd. He giggled.

Then she changed. That wasn’t right, he was the only one supposed to change around here. But there she went, becoming something unRose. Smirking and selfish and seductive, with something new inside her. She changed again; this time her outside had become shiny and silver and soulless. Changed again; faceless and homeless and hopeless. Again; eater of hope and light and truth. Red eyes burned from an impossible planet, and she snarled.

He realized that these were her possibilities. Death or capture or a tool of destruction. He should destroy the problem before it became a problem. A pre-emptive strike. It would be easy, just snap her silly little neck, and all the possibilities would die with her. He would be free to run through the stars as he wished.

Run. The word tingled in his mind. There was something important about it. _Run._ He couldn’t run, he had to kill her first. _Run!_ Why? She wasn’t dangerous, not yet. _Run!_ Run where? He had the whole of time and space to choose from, where could he go to be safe from her? _Barcelona._ Of course, that would be perfect, the planet Barcel—

Wait.

_Run. Barcelona. Christmas._

Yes.

IV.

He didn’t read Rose’s timelines again. The storm would still have raged over their heads. Nothing would have changed.

Now, he was watching water and fire destroy a hidden brood and listening to the rage of a grief-stricken mother under London. He felt peaceful. No, more disinterested. Numb. Dead. It felt good. He wanted to stop feeling. He wanted to stop everything.

And here was the perfect opportunity. It would be seen as an accident by the authorities or as a casualty of war by the more knowledgeable ones. He would go down saving the day once again instead of quietly disappearing. Not a bad end. He might even get a memorial, a sort of Unknown Soldier deal. It wouldn’t be entirely appropriate, but humans liked that sort of thing. What had he told Donna? Something about making order out of chaos.

Right, Donna. Hmm. She was a complication. He could afford to wait until the water rose or the architecture gave out, but she couldn’t. He should save her.

Should he? Once he was out, he was out and wouldn’t be able to go back. But the moment was too perfect to pass up. It would be so easy to stop and wait here, watching the Empress until the very last moment. Donna would be collateral damage, one among the thousands of causalities today and the countless multitudes he had encountered before. If he stopped now, who knows how many would be saved from meeting him. They could continue to live normal lives and suffer normal tragedies. Yes, it would be better if he stopped and waited, finally keeping an appointment he’d been running from for decades. He felt relieved.

“Doctor!” someone yelled at him, and he looked down to see the bride. Donna, wet and scared and mouthy and incompetent and another victim.

“You can stop now!”

Did Donna know what she was saying? He had already decided to stop moving, stop destroying, stop himself. He knew what she meant. But it was so tempting; the water was rising beautifully fast and all he wanted was to stop, to pause, just for a moment, and forget about saving lives…

He turned away and held out his hand to her. He half-wished that she wasn’t here, so he would be free to make his own choice.

V.

The familiar choice, this time held in a simple pocket watch. Death and fear and freedom on one hand, safety and stability and cowardice on the other. John Smith gripped the metal. The dreams were real, and he was false. He had to die so that he could live. It was too complicated to comprehend.

Warm hands on his. That look in Joan’s eyes. A mixture of hope and despair. He knew others had looked at him in the same way she was now, but in another lifetime. Even Martha, waiting outside, had looked at him like that. They both were waiting for him to make the right decision, but perhaps those expectations were at odds with each other.

Oh, god! War wasn’t like this. He had been in war before. But was that real, or part of his fictionalized existence? If he wasn’t real, how could he trust his own morals? He hung his head.

Joan didn’t say anything, which was a small mercy. If she had cried or begged he would have lost all resolve, but she was a stronger woman than that. She didn’t flinch at the sounds of destruction. She would make a good companion, he thought, then blinked. No, he meant wife. Companion was a word _he_ would use.

That damn watch. It was warm in his hand, almost hot. If he smashed it, would it destroy whatever was inside? Then maybe these terrible creatures would leave. There would be no point in staying if their prize was gone. But he knew with deep human instinct that anything as cruel as they wouldn’t simply disappear. _Human._ A sob caught in his throat.

He was holding the watch in his left hand, and Joan was holding his right hand in hers. Her eyes moved from it to him and back again. He thought she was smiling slightly, but she stayed silent. There was a pause in the chaos outside, and she leaned forward to kiss him. To say good-bye, he realized. Because they both knew he wouldn’t be a coward. Hand in hand, he clicked open the watch. And freed himself.

For months he had been blind, and now he could finally see! First things first; the Family had short range Gala-16s, which would have come with their stolen ship. Galas weren’t common, so that limited it to a Lancer-class military ship. Oh good, he liked Lancers; so easy to fiddle with. He raced out the door, going over what he knew of olfactory misdirection in his mind. He didn’t look back.


End file.
